


A Rose by Any Other Name

by Silvestria



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Language of Flowers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:10:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13444443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvestria/pseuds/Silvestria
Summary: Matthew doesn't show enough interest at the flower show. Mary attempts to educate him. Post 1x05 ficlet.





	A Rose by Any Other Name

The morning after the flower show, Matthew woke late, feeling depressed. By the time he dragged himself downstairs for breakfast, his mother had already eaten and was making preparations for church. Molesley was in the dining room, arranging a vase of impressive flowers with great delicacy on the sideboard.

Matthew poured himself a cup of coffee and wandered over. 

“They’re rather fine. Where are they from?”

“They were delivered early this morning, sir,” replied Molesley and stopped his arrangements for a moment to hand Matthew a note. “This came with them.”

_ If you are to be one of us, you should at least feign an interest in flowers. Consider this a contribution to your education. M. _

Matthew scowled and tossed the note in the grate. 

He and his mother barely made it to church on time and were forced to sit in the back row, sidling in sheepishly just before the altar party. As the first hymn began and heads turned towards the aisle, he saw Mary turn around from the front row and meet his eyes briefly. She looked directly at him and very slightly raised her eyebrows. Infuriating woman. Had she no sense of modest decency? Matthew glared just as stubbornly back. Her lips pressed together and she turned her attention back to  _ O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness _ . Matthew did not find his thoughts turning to divine contemplation with much ease that morning.

At the end of the service, he was all for escaping as quickly as he could but his mother had been caught by Dr. Clarkson and he was trapped in his pew. Mary, elegant and cool in a wide-brimmed hat was bearing down on him at the other end of the row. She was looking far too pleased with herself and he was determined not to play any games with her. Not any more.

“I suppose the flowers are your idea of an apology,” he said immediately, before she could try to catch him out with something clever.

“Oh! Maybe!” she replied.

He was suspicious of such prevarication. “Maybe?”

“Really, Matthew, can’t you understand the language of flowers? What a poor time you’ve had of it up in Manchester!”

He gritted his teeth against her insults, feather-light and charming as always. “And yet here I am, all in one piece.” The  _ language of flowers  _ indeed! Did she think he was a Victorian schoolgirl?

She shrugged. “Have it your own way. Sometimes flowers are just flowers. I’m sure we’ll see you and Cousin Isobel up at the Abbey soon enough. You don’t seem to be able to keep away, do you?”

There was that brilliant smile that he had come to know so well. Utterly insincere and yet it was still capable of completely flooring him. And behind it, a wariness and longing in her dark eyes as she turned away from him to rejoin her family that arrested him even more than the smile. 

Back home, Matthew tried to forget about the flowers, but it was hard to do so when the vase was sitting there with the blooms filling the room with their colour and scent and pulling his attention away from his book. He did not even recognise all the flowers she had included.

He waited for a pause in a conversation he had been having with his mother about the cottages several hours after lunch, to casually wonder whether she recognised the flowers in the bouquet.

Isobel was happy to oblige and stood up to look more closely.

“Some carnations,” she began. “Primroses - very pretty. A few lovely, white poppies - rather unusual in bouquets like this. Who did you say they were from?”

“Oh, the Crawleys, I think,” muttered Matthew vaguely. Isobel shot him a sharp look but did not press the matter.

“Quite a few mixed zinnia, some camellias - and a single red rose. A delightful selection. Whichever of them chose it put some thought into it.”

“Mmm,” said Matthew, feigning disinterest.

It was only later that evening when she had gone out to visit a friend, that he began scouring her bookshelves for the dictionary of flower meanings that he knew had to be there. After all,  he  might not be a Victorian schoolgirl, but she had been once upon a time.

Triumphant in his quest, he returned to the dining room and the vase and tried to recall the names.

“White poppies? White poppies…  _ Consolation _ !” He raised his eyebrows. How… kind. “Primroses, she had said…  _ I can’t live without you _ .” That did make him pause, until he read the next line. “Or  _ inconstancy _ .” 

Hmm.

Mixed zinnias apparently signified thinking of an absent friend, purple carnations (as these were) stood for capriciousness and camellias could mean anything from simply a suitable gift for a man to admiration to longing. The single red rose everybody knew meant passionate love. Unless he was meant to see it more in the context of a single bloom which indicated enduring love. Or perhaps it wasn’t red but dark crimson which was apparently  _ mourning  _ of all things.

Matthew slammed the book shut and sank back onto the sofa, glaring at the offending vase of flowers. Mary Crawley had spelled out her character for him in flowers - perhaps - but he could not say it helped him very much.

So much for an apology.

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahahaah I cannot believe I have written another M/M fic, albeit a mini one! It's like slipping on a well-worn glove again. Bless them!
> 
> Prompted by OrangeShipper to get me out of a writer's block. Thank you! <3
> 
> All comments most gratefully received as I am not feeling at all confident in my writing atm and this is an attempt to get back into it.


End file.
